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About Namur

So, I’m prowlin’ the streets, right? Lookin’ for a gal who don’t play games. Not like those dolled-up dames in Haynes’ flick. “I’m so terribly alone,” Cathy’d whimper. Boo-hoo, lady, try payin’ for company—cuts the crap. Found this spot, seedy joint, neon buzzin’ like a pissed-off hornet. Guy outside says, “Fifteen bucks, she’s yours.” Fifteen! I’d spend that on bacon! Made me mad—cheap price, cheap world. Hate inflation, hate hagglin’ more.

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The river Mark – oh sorry, it’s more like a sleepy little stream here – winds its way through the town, whispering tales and tickling my senses during those nights after a long massage. It’s all so surreal sometimes. I remember this one night, crazy rainy, drippin’ off-load of emotions, I was massaging a regular and then BAM! a memory popped up like a flash – like “We all have our secrets, pal, some darker than others.” Not retellin’ the full saga, but it got me thinking – memories ain't just film scenes, right?

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